


Phantom Pains

by LonelyIslandDaydreamer



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Pat being the supportive dad we all love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26068570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonelyIslandDaydreamer/pseuds/LonelyIslandDaydreamer
Summary: The life and death of our favourite regency disaster.
Relationships: George Gordon Byron | Lord Byron/Thomas Thorne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work I've posted on here, I hope you guys like it!  
> Disclaimer: the series Ghosts belongs to the BBC, no copyright infringement intended.

Love had always come far too easily to Thomas. All it took was a brief encounter, and he would be smitten for months.  
It was a crisp morning at the end of December, 1815, and Thomas was writing a letter to his latest, and his most ardent love yet: Lord George Byron. He knew it had to be kept secret; this kind of rapport between two men was unacceptable to all except the radical poets popping up about the country. And, as everyone in polite society knew, the radical poets themselves were blasphemers to all laws of nature- or so people said. Thomas couldn't help but see reason in their views. He had met Byron at a party, and they had struck up a conversation on each other's poems. Thomas, being the younger, had not yet published any of his works, and Byron was famous. Thomas found himself struck by Byron's powerful, brooding presence and believed he had found a sort of kindred spirit. They had removed themselves from the throng of people, taking a bottle of claret, and had stolen off into a quiet corner of the manor.

"I am, dearest, your most loving and eternal servant,  
Thomas."  
He finished the letter with a flourish, and with a sigh, placed his quill on the desk. He had accepted Byron's invitation to pass New Year's Eve with him at his manor house in the countryside, and, rather foolishly, entertained the prospect of moving in with Byron permanently.  
His family had practically disowned him, anyway.

"The master is out riding in the fields, sir, he shall return shortly. May I bring sir some refreshment?"  
"No, thank you. I shall await his lordship's arrival."  
Thomas handed his valise to the servant that had shown him in, then strode into the large drawing room to the immediate left of the rather unassuming front door. It was hardly the most impressive house he'd ever been to- but he had to admit that there was a feeling of it having been loved by many people that lent it a welcoming aura. No sooner had this thought struck him, he noticed the large pianoforte to one side of the room, and was immediately drawn to it. Tentatively, he pressed a key. A few chords later, he was lost to the sweet waves of the melody. He could barely remember what he was playing; something beautiful, in any case. The beauty was interrupted, however, by the violent strike of an accidental chord as a pair of hands clasped his shoulders.  
"Don't stop on my account," the familiar voice murmured into Thomas's ear, the familiar lips pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. "You play beautifully." "Thisis a new device, creeping in like a tomcat. You gave me quite a fright, my lord."

"Tom?"  
He jumped.  
"You alright, mate?" Pat stood in the doorway, his brow knitted with uncharacteristic concern. Normally the others never cared about his wellbeing- it didn't seem like it, anyway.  
"...Tom? You there?"  
"Oh, my sincere apologies, Pat. My mind is far away this morning. I was merely, um, reminiscing on the events of my life."  
"Is it your death day soon, then?"  
The window seat creaked as Pat sat down on its worn cushions.  
"I believe so."  
Thomas was staring down at the lawn at the back of the house, the lake reflecting the morning sun into his drier-than-usual eyes.  
"D'you want to talk about it, then?"  
"I... I'd prefer not to discuss the matter."

It was a beautiful day for hunting. There wasn't exactly an abundance of game around the hall that Thomas had now purchased, but he and Byron enjoyed the riding, in any case. Though this morning, Byron seemed different. Colder, less attentive.  
"Is everything alright, George?"  
"Perfectly. Take the horses to the stables, then meet me in the library. I've something to show you." Byron grinned.

"Well? Reveal all, George, I refuse to remain in the dark." Thomas practically danced into the library, clumsy in his childish excitement. Byron had his back to him, facing a bookcase, holding something Thomas could not see.  
"Turn around, my dear, I'm not quite ready."  
Thomas turned.  
He did not hear the sound of the pistol in Byron's hand being cocked.  
Byron moved behind Thomas, and pressed a book into his hand.  
"Open it."  
The book was bound in red leather, letters shining in a golden typeset.  
"A selection of poems, by Lord Byron," Thomas read aloud from the cover, flicking through the pages. Then stopping. Then frowning.  
"George?"  
"Does it please you?"  
"Some of these are mine. They're published under your name."  
"Alas, Tom, you must learn to sign your work in the future."  
Thomas was incensed.  
"I shall make it known that this work is mine. That you are a plagiarist. How dare you?"  
"Oh, I dare. And I know that you shall not live to tell the tale, not if I have anything to do with it."  
The silence of their anger was shattered, briefly, by a terrible, echoing noise. Pain ripped through Thomas's left side and he realised, groggily, what had happened.  
He had been shot.

"What affrontery is this? I cannot and will not bear it!" Thomas stormed out of the room, fury blinding him. This could not be happening. His heart had long since stopped, and it was many years since the days when pain had been his constant companion, but as he pressed his hand over his wound, he almost expected it to leave his hand marked with crimson. And it ached. Dull at first, then it grew to such strength that he wasn't sure whether he was really dead, perhaps this had all been some kind of strange dream, perhaps he was still in January 1816, bleeding out on the library floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People seemed to like chapter 1 so I'm going to continue this! The chapter lengths will vary :/  
> Enjoy the fic!

There was frost on the windows. Feathery swirls had been traced across the glass with icy fingers, and it was cold to the touch. Thomas missed that, touching. He was still, somehow, able to touch and to feel, but nobody had indulged him in anything other than a discreet tap on the shoulder or a polite handshake. He missed being embraced. He wanted to feel the comforting warmth of another person holding him tightly. And he knew that if someone did, he wouldn't be able to let go.

His mother was holding him, clutching him to her chest and smoothing the dark curls from his face. Feverish perspiration clung to Thomas's forehead as he struggled for breath, sleeping fitfully.  
"It's the consumption. Edward, I... I am afraid he will not see spring, he's so frail."  
Thomas's father stood by, looking down at the boy on the cusp of manhood now suddenly so small, so fragile.  
"He's only twelve... Oh, Edward, what can we do? I refuse to let him die! I simply cannot let it happen!"  
"Hush, Mary, he wakes. We must follow the doctor's orders, and we must pray."  
Violent coughing shook the boy's frame. Shaking, he held a handkerchief to his mouth, and it came away bloody.

Sitting on the window seat, more than two hundred years later, Thomas recalled the unfortunate events that constituted his childhood. Constantly ailing, the family had despaired for Thomas, declaring each year that he would not live to see the next. And yet he did. Despite the consumption and his weak chest, he struggled through the frostbitten winters and became stronger. At least, in death, the glacial talons of jack frost could not close about his chest and stop his breath. At least now, he could be at peace.

"Hello, Thomas!"  
So much for peace.  
Kitty glided through the wall, setting herself down next Thomas with all the grace and elegance of an excited lapdog. Despite her slightly childish character, Thomas couldn't bring himself to dislike the fiercely loyal young lady. 

"Is there something on your mind, Thomas?"  
"Merely the events of my past, Kitty. I've remembered an old poem of mine, too."  
"Ooh, may I hear it?"  
"..Certainly."  
Thomas took a deep breath.  
"When we two parted, in silence and tears  
Half-brokenhearted to sever for years,  
Cold grew thy cheek, and cold  
Colder thy kiss,"  
Thomas realised he was trembling, and yet he carried on.  
"If I should meet thee after long years,  
How should I greet thee?  
With silence and tears."  
Thomas felt Kitty's hand brush his cheek.  
He pulled back, confused, until he felt another tear drop from his eye. 

He had first recited that poem for George, for Byron. He had meant it to be about the death of his mother, who had died a few days after his recovery from the consumption, having caught it from him and taken ill. Thomas felt the weight of his guilt most acutely, and he had hoped that dedicating this to her would be a way to lessen the sting of grief. But Byron stole it. He twisted it. Its meaning and interpretation in Byron's context only made sense to him after his death; two lovers, one snatched away from the life he so lustily struggled through, the other attempting an air of mystery, hoping to be suave, and dying a feverish death, plagued by delirium. Thomas, unlike the other ghosts, seemed to have attached himself to his killer after death, and followed him until his demise. Only then did he return to the bloodstained library, where he found four other departed souls waiting for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm fairly sure this fic isn't canon compliant after seeing the S2 trailer but hey who cares

Life, for Alison, had taken a strange turn. Having inherited a crumbling stately home that they had the money to take care of, along with its prior inhabitants, she had, admittedly, become slightly desensitised to strange occurrences. However, upon the discovery of a bloodstained poetry book, she had to consult Mike.   
"Do you know what symbol this is?"  
"Uhm.... Perhaps a p, or a b? I dunno. Ask the ghosts, maybe they know."

"Get that accursed thing out of my sight!"  
The other ghosts stared at Thomas, amazed. His chest was heaving, and he exhibited the kind of bloodless pallor you'd expect to find in a ghost. He almost looked frightened.  
"Get rid of it! Burn it! Do what you will with it, but take care that it never comes within my sight again!"  
With that, Thomas turned on his heel and left.

For some reason, he went to the library. He stared at the faded bloodstain on the carpet, and his hand found the familiar chip in the bookcase where the bullet had buried itself.   
The memories were still so painful.

"G- George?!"   
The agony made Thomas hysterical.  
"Oh, Tom. You never published those, they were practically asking to be reused, don't you think?"  
"How- how could you do t-this to me? You- you loved me!"   
Thomas spluttered, blood spreading across his expensive waistcoat.  
Byron laughed. A cruel sound.  
"Oh, Tom. You always were so naïve. I never loved you. You were merely... A dalliance, a brief interest, a mistake, if you will. A silly little boy, desperate for attention. You always were rather tiresome."  
"George!"  
"Goodbye, Tom."

And, suddenly, the room was empty. Thomas's breathing quickened, the pain was making him panic. It might take him hours to die.

He suddenly realised he didn't want to die like this, face down, crumpled on the carpet. It simply wasn't dignified.  
So, he struggled to his knees, and shuffled slowly, torturously, to the window seat. The book lay on the floor next to him. That damned book.   
Damn him.   
Damn Byron and all of his farcical success to hell.  
He saw a figure on a horse, galloping down the long driveway.  
Byron.  
"I swear, George, I will do whatever I can to find you... And I- I will take my revenge."

The pain was worse now. He felt sick.  
Thomas fumbled about on the floor, groping for the book. Shaking, he found the page where his poem had been printed. Slowly, carefully, Thomas dragged his bloodstained fingers across the stolen words in a gory signature. Thomas always liked to sign his name that way. It was an old symbol, a thorn.   
þ .

Two hundred years later, Thomas had done his best to forget the events of that January afternoon. He hated how he had died; disgraced, alone, forgotten.   
His father hadn't even attended his funeral. Nor had he ever visited. As soon as he had heard that Thomas had died, he sold the house off and lived out his days rich as Croesus and miserable as sin.   
Not one thought was spared for his only legitimate child. 

The room felt stifling, and Thomas needed to get out, he had to leave, he couldn't be here, of all places, any longer.

So he went to the lake.


	4. Chapter 4

After having seen season 2, I've realised that this fic is a huge canon deviation, so I'm not going to continue this fic as I originally intended. Apologies to like the two people who read this :)


End file.
